The clouds erupted—slate gray, charcoal. Almost black.
Winds shredded sky, water cut skin, so Turner knew he
had no choice. He chartered a ship and tied himself to the
creaking mast.

Eventually even Monet changed his paints, the world first
yellow-casted, then blue, then a miraculous red. Thus,
strangely real. As vision itself is too much too soon too
fast too full too bright too loud too hot too close—like
fainting, but before you black out.